


What Remains

by Astray



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion
Genre: Angst, Gen, Spoilers for the end of the Hobbit, battle of the five armies, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were said to have left Middle-Earth, but sometimes, one of them come back to watch. During the Battle of the Five Armies, he was there - and he grieved.<br/>Spoilers for the end of The Hobbit - along with a bit of a twist because I can. (My first Tolkien-fic... \o/)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Remains

The battle that would enter History as the Battle of the Five Armies had just begun, but he already knew the heirs of Durìn would never see their great Halls again. Not before the end of time, when the Dark One will be destroyed at last – if he is destroyed, and he himself sometimes doubted it. His life and that of those around had long since taught him not to raise his hopes too fast, though he was confident in the hearts of the warriors. It grieved him so, to see the kin and kith of Durìn in such a predicament. He wished things would have been different, and he cursed the day dragons began to roam Arda. Smaug was one, but he clearly remembered the wreckage caused by Glaurung in Nargothrond. And as was on that occasion, he was bound to watch from afar, never to act. And he kept on watching, pain seizing him with each blows striking against the King and his kin. No matter his strength, he could not fight this – the pain echoed through his entire being, filling him with the song of torn flesh and rendered bones. His heart bled – and he was truly alone. Did Eru felt this, when Beleriand was torn apart by the Elven wars? Did he weep for Gondolin, for Doriath? Did he wail for Alqualondë? He shook his head – there was no questioning Illuvatàr, but he could not help. It was unfair of him, that he knew. How could he be expected not to interfere when Dwarves were deprived of their home, of life and limbs, before his eyes? 

A shriek tore him from his thoughts – the Eagles. The great Eagles of Manwë have come at last. His heart swelled, before all hopes were dashed as he felt more than saw a rusted blade cleave Thorin's shoulder. But he hoped – against all reason – that the Oakenshield would not break and would live on. The last, direct, heir to Durìn.  
Alack – the one time he would have prayed Eru, it proved to be in vain – for down fell Thorin, son of Thrain. When the body of the King Under the Mountain hit the ground, broken by blows too numerous and heavy to count, when both his nephews could not even protect themselves from the onslaught, a tremendous roar was heard. As though the mountain itself, the rocks and earth were screaming their helpless outrage. Scream they did, just as he screamed himself – the wail of ageless pain too ancient to be soothed. It went, on and on, but the sounds drowned by the cries of battle. Only Olorìn heard him, for at once he felt the eyes of the Istari bore into him. Seeing through the guise, through the shades. And the Eagles knew – for all things great and small they saw. They saw the dark shadow away from the field – they could feel through their wings the sharp despair like wind cutting on the ice, grief a white flame that unseen tore at those who laid hand on the King of Erebor and his kin. And deep within his heart, the same words... They were too young, did not deserve such fate. Why? A question unanswered. 

As he laid, Thorin recalled ancient tales. Tales of the great Mahal, he whom others called Aulë. The Valar who created the Fathers of their race. When he fell, he had known his nephews fighting in vain in his defence – and he had thought he had seen it in the distance. The fierce face of the Valar amidst the chaos of battle. He needed none to tell him what befell his sister-sons. It had been a dream, no doubt – but here on his deathbed, for he knew a deathbed when he laid on one, he saw him again. Radiating this warmth he had missed, found only to be lost again. No one seemed to see the figure looming over Thoring but he. He could not describe the being that stood before him, not with words, not in any known language. He did not have the strength to. A hand on his brow, as though to wash the blood away – he could not feel the pain. The hand moving over his heart, easig hi ragged breathing, a soothing balm. He wanted to speak, to ask – but ask what? He had nothing to wish for but the lives of those who fell. Even the Arkenstone would not have alleviated the knowledge that the ones he considered his own sons were lying dead. 

“Thorin son of Thrain son of Thròr, Oakenshield. How it pains me to do what must be done. Fear has no place in your heart, and you will be reunited with your kin, King Under the Mountain.” Even then, he could not say how it hurt him, how it made his core ache and tear. Durìn's people were so few – each death a stab. For all their strength and courage and resilience – he understood how fragile they were. More than Elves, of whom many still remained beyond the sea, more than Men who were so many. Each Dwarf that died was not to be replaced... And guilt gnashed at his insides. Eru had known this – it was his punishment, his burden. Even before he could help it, he laid a gentle kiss on Thorin's brow – a reminder of the day he brought the first Dwarfs into being. Long eons passed since but he could not forget. 

A whisper, raspy – barely recognizable – was heard. Thorin calling him: “Mahal.” And Aulë smiled, though it remained unseen to all. 

“Aye. 'Tis time, Thorin.” 

When the Last Battle will come, he will fight by their side. Iron, stone and furnace – and the worms will pay. This was the vow he firmly intended to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a jerk, I know. I could have made Aulë do something and save Thorin - thus salvaging my feels and yours - but I like this better.  
> And he always struck me as the one closest to his 'creation' - honestly, it's like: the Elves and Men are created for a purpose, while Aulë did what he did... well, he did not have ulterior motives, did he? 
> 
> Here, if you made it so far, have some cookies.


End file.
